THE  EVENING  HOURS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

POEMS  OF 
EMILE  VERHAEREN 

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THE  SUNLIT  HOURS 

Cloth         izmo          $1.00  net 

AFTERNOON 

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JOHN       LANE       COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


THE 
EVENING  HOURS 

BY 
EMILE  VERHAEREN 

AUTHOR  Or 

"THE  SUNLIT  HOURS,"  "AFTERNOON," 
ETC. 

TRANSLATED  BY 
CHARLES  R.  MURPHY 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

MCMXVIU 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Co. 
New  York 


A 

CELLE 
QUI  VIT 

A 
MES  COTES 


2063759 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    "Tender  Flowers,  Light  as  the 

Sea's  Foam" 13 

II.    "If  It  Be  True"      ....       15 

III.  "Dead  is  the  Glycin  and  the 

Hawthorne  Flower"     .     .       17 

IV.  "Draw  Your  Chair  to  Mine"      21 
V.    "Be  Kind  and  Comforting  to 

Us,  Oh  Light!    ....       24 
VI.    "Alas,  the  Time  of  Crimson 

Phlox  is  Past"   ....       26 
VII.    "The  Evening  Falls,  the  Moon 

is  Gold" 28 

VIII.    "When   You   Store   Away  in 

Fragrant  Shelves"  ...      31 
IX.    "Fallen  is  the  Leafage  from 

Above" 33 

7 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

X.    "When     the     Star-lit     Heaven 

Broods  Above  Our  House"       37 
XL    "That  Very  Love  Which  Made 

You  be  for  Me"      .      .     .       39 
XII.    "Those  Clear  Welcoming  Flow- 
ers Along  the  Wall's   Ex- 
tent"        41 

XIII.  "When  the  Diamond  Grains  of 

Fresh  Snow"      ....       44 

XIV.  "If.  Fate  Has  Saved  Us  from 

the  Banal  Sins"       ...       46 
XV.    "No,  My  Soul  Has  Never  Tired 

of  You!" 49 

XVI.    "Ah,  we  are  Happy  Still  and 

Proud  to  Live"        ...       51 
XVII.    "Alas,  Must  We  Accept  the 

Weight  of  Years"    ...       53 
XVIII.    "All  Little  Facts,  the  Things 

of  No  Account"       ...       55 
XIX.    "Come  to  Our  Threshold  Now, 

Oh  Snow"    .....       57 

8 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX.    "When  Our  Clear  Garden  Lift- 
ed up  Its  Flow'rs"  ...       59 
XXI.    "With     Withered     Hands     I 

Touch  Your  Brow"      .     .       61 
XXII.    "Our  Hearts  Once  Burned  in 

Joyous  Days'*    ....       63 

XXIII.  "This  Wrinkled  Winter  when 

the  Ruined  Sun"     ...       65 

XXIV.  "Perhaps" 67 

XXV.    "Clasped  About  My  Neck  and 

Harbouring  My  Breast"    .       69 
XXVI.    "When  You  Shall  Close  These 

Eyes  of  Mine  to  Light"     .       72 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 


Tender  flowers,  light  as  the  sea's  foam, 

Graced  our  garden  way; 
The  lapsing  wind  would  give  your  hands 
caress 

And  with  your  hair  would  play. 

The  shade  was  kind  to  our  united  steps 

That  wandered  soberly; 
And  from  the  village  a  child's  song  arose 

To  fill  infinity. 

Our  ponds  extended  in  the  autumn  light 

Beneath  the  guarding  reed, 
And    the    wood's    forehead    showed    its 

mobile  crown 
To  pools  upon  the  mead. 
13 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

And  we,  who  knew  our  hearts  were  mur- 
muring 

In  union  but  one  prayer, 
Thought  that  it  was  our  peaceful  life  the 

eve 
Showed  unveiled  there. 

Supremely  then  you  saw  the  sky  aglow 

For  a  farewell  caress; 
And  long  and  long  you  looked  on  it  with 
eyes 

Filled  with' mute  tenderness. 


If  it  be  true 

That  garden  flower  or  meadow  tree 

May  hold  still  any  memory 

Of  lovers  past  who  once  looked  on 

Their  splendour  or  their  purity, 

So  shall  our  love  return  once  more 

In  that  long  hour  of  long  regret 

To  give  the  rose,  or  in  the  oak  restore, 

Its  sweetness  or  its  strength, 

Ere  death  come  yet. 

Thus  shall  it  survive  unconquered 
Within  the  glory  that  belongs  to  simple 
things, 

15 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

And  find  a  joy  again  in  light  that  cleaves 

The  sky  on  summer  break  of  day, 

And  find  a  joy  again 

In  the  sweet  rain 

That  dwells  in  drops  on  hanging  leaves. 

And  if  on  some  fair  eve,  from  depths  of 

space, 

Should  come  two  lovers  hand  in  hand, 
The  oak,  like  a  large  and  puissant  wing 
Would  reach  its  shadow  out  to  where  they 

stand, 

And  the  rose  would  give  them  of  its  per- 
fumed grace. 


16 


Ill 


Dead   is   the   glycin   and  the  hawthorne 

flower; 
But  now  is  the  time  when  heather-bloom 

is  seen, 

And  on  this  so  calm  eve  the  rustling  wind 
Brings  you  the  fragrance  of  the  starved 
Campine. 

Love  and  breathe  them,  thinking  of  its 

fate; 
Over  that  rugged  soil  the  storm-wind 

lives; 

Sand  and  sea  have  made  of  it  their  prey, 
Yet  of  the  little  left,  it  ever  gives. 
17 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

Of  old,  though  autumn  came,  we  dwelled 

with  it, 
With  plain  and  forest,  with  the  storm 

and  light, 

Until  the  angels  of  the  Christmas  time 
Inscribed  its  legend  with  their  winged 
flight. 

Your  heart  became  more  simple  and  more 

sure; 

We  loved  the  villagers  and  the  forlorn 
Old  women  who  would  speak  of  their 

great  age 

And  of  old  spinning-wheels  their  hands 
had  worn. 

Our  quiet  house  upon  the  misty  heath 
Was  frank  and  welcoming  to  all  who 
came; 

18 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

Its  roof  was  dear  to  us,  its  door  and  sill, 
And  hearth  long  blackened  by  familiar 
flame. 


When  over  vast,  pale,  measureless  repose 
The  total  splendour  of  the  night  was  set, 

A  lesson  of  deep  silence  we  received, 
Whose  ardour  never  shall  our  souls  for- 
get. 

Since  we  were  more  alone  amid  the  plain, 
The  dawn  and  evening  entered  more 

our  thought, 
Our  eyes  were   franker  and  our  hearts 

more  sweet 

And  with  the  world's  desire  more  fully 
fraught. 

19 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

We  found  content  in  not  exacting  it; 

The  sadness,  even,  of  the  days  was  kind, 
And  the  rare  sunlight  of  the  autumn's  end 

Charmed  us  the  more  that  it  seemed 
weak  and  blind. 

Dead  is  the  glycin  and  the  hawthorne 

flower; 

But  now  are  the  days  when  heather- 
bloom  is  seen, 

Remember  these,  and  let  the  rustling  wind 
Bring  you  the  fragrance  of  the  starved 
Campine. 


20 


IV 

Draw  your  chair  to  mine 
And  stretch  your  hands  to  the  hearth, 
That  I  may  see  between  your  fingers 
Shine 

The  ancient  flame; 
And  look  upon  the  fire 
Quietly,  with  your  eyes 
That  have  no  fear  of  any  light, 
So  that  for  me  they  be  the  same, 
Yet  franker  when  the  blaze  leaps  higher 
Making  them  as  from  deep  within  you, 
bright. 

Ah,  how  fair  still  is  our  life  and  fain  I 
When  the  clock  strikes  out  its  notes  of 
gold 

21 


And  I  approach  you  and  as  a  flower  hold; 
And  a  fever  slow  and  pure, 
Which  we  will  not  to  restrain, 
Leads  the  kiss,  marvellous  and  sure, 
From  hand  to  brow,  from  brow  to  lips 
again. 


How  well  I  love  you,  O  my  clear  beloved, 
Your     swooning     body,     caressing     and 

caressed, 

In  whose  depth  of  joy  I  almost  drown. 
All  is  more  dear  to  me,  your  lips,  your 

arms  close-pressed, 
And  your  kind  bosom  whereon  my  tired 

head 

After  the  rapture  you  bestow,  sinks  down 

Quietly,  near  your  heart  to  find  its  rest. 

22 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

I  love  you  still  more  after  love's  sharp 

pain 
When  your  goodness  still  more  sure  and 

motherly 

Brings  repose  to  passion's  ardency, 
And,  when  desire  has  cried  aloud  its  will} 
I  hear  approach  familiar  joy  again, 
With  steps  that  almost  silence  are,  it  is  so 

still. 


Be  kind  and  comforting  to  us,  oh  light ! 
And  bathe  our  foreheads  now,  oh  wintry 

ray! 

When  we  two  issue  forth  this  afternoon 
To  breathe  together  the  last  warmth  of 
day. 

We  loved  you  formerly  with  such  a  pride, 
With  such  a  love  as  our  two  souls  could 

lend, 
That  a  supreme  and  sweet  and  friendly 

flame 

Is  due  us  now  that  we  await  the  end. 
24 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

You  are  that  which  no  man  may  forget, 
From  dawn  that  smites  his  arm  uncon- 

quered 

To  evening  when  you  sleep  within  his  eyes 
Your     strength     abolished     and    your 
splendour  dead. 

Always  for  us  you  were  the  seen  desire 
Spreading   through    all,    luminous   and 

free, 
That  with  impassioned  ardour  deep  and 

high 
Seemed  from  our  heart  to  seek  infinity. 


VI 


Alas  the  time  of  crimson  phlox  is  past 
And   of  proud   roses   brightening  the 

gate. 
What  matter?     Still  I  love  with  all  my 

heart 

Our  garden,  tho'  deflow'red  and  deso- 
late. 

More  dear  than  are  the  joyous  summer 

noons, 
My    garden    is    that    now    forlornly 

grieves; 

Oh  the  last  perfumes  languidly  exhaled 
By  a  late  flower  in  the  lingering  leaves ! 
26 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

This  evening  I  wandered  in  the  paths 
Over  the  plants  my  fervent  touch  to 

pass, 
And  falling  on  my  knees  I  pressed  my 

lips 

To  the  wet  earth  among  the  trembling 
grass. 

And  now  that  it  is  dying  and  the  night 
Has   misted   all   the    garden   with   its 

breath, 

My  being  that  so  dwells  in  all  this  ruin 
Shall  learn  to  die  in  sharing  thus  its 
death. 


VII 

The  evening  falls,  the  moon  is  gold.  .  .  . 

Before  the  day  is  spent 

Go  out  and  wander  in  the  garden  walks 

And  pluck  with  gentle  hands 

The  few  remaining  flowers  that  on  their 

stalks 
Are  not  yet  sadly  bent  toward  the  mould. 

What  matter  if  their  foliage  be  wan? 
We  still  admire  and  love, 
And  still  their  chalices  are  beautiful  above 
The  stems  they  rest  upon. 
28 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

You  wander  mid  the  borders  here  and 

there 

Along  a  lonely  path, 
And  the  flowers  you  bear 
Tremble  in  your  hand  that  shudders  as  it 

takes. 

And  now  your  dreamy  fingers 
Reverently  shape  the  sere 
Roses  wherein  autumn  lingers, 
Weaving  them  with  many  a  tear, 
Into  a  crown  of  pale,  clear  flakes. 

The  last  light  dwells  upon  your  eyes,  and 

brow 
And  your  slow  steps  are  sad  and  quiet 

now.  .  .  . 

Slowly,  at  the  vesper,  through  the  gloam, 
With  empty  hands  you  wandered  home, 
29 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

Leaving,  upon  a  little  humid  mound, 
On  the  path  that  to  our  doorway  led, 
The  pale  circlet  that  your  fingers  bound. 
And  I  knew  that  in  our  garden  perished, 
Where  winds  now  pass  like  cohorts  over- 
head, 
You  would  give  flower  again  for  one  last 

time, 

To  our  youth  that  lies  upon  the  ground 
Dead. 


VIII 

When  you  store  away  in  fragrant  shelves, 
Some  autumn  eve,  the  fruits  of  orchard 

trees, 

I  seem  to  see*  you  calmly  ranging  there 
Our  old,  but  fresh  and  perfumed  mem- 
ories. 

And  love  returns  for  them  as  once  they 

were, 
The  wind  on  lips  and  sunlight  in  my 

eyes; 

I  see  the  vanished  moments  once  again, 
Their  joy,  their  mirth,  their  fevers  and 
their  cries. 

31 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

The  past  comes  back  to  life  with  such  dc« 

sire 

To  be  the  present  with  its  force  again, 
That  half-extinct  fires  burn  with  sudden 

flame, 

My  heart  exults  and  swoons  as  though 
in  pain. 

Oh  fruits  that  glow  amid  the  autumn 
shadows, 

Jewels  fallen  from  the  summer's  string 
Of  gems,  illumining  our  sombre  hours, 

What  red  awakening  is  this  you  bring! 


IX 


Fallen  is  the  leafage  from  above 

That  covered  all  the  garden  with  its 
shade ; 

See,  between  the  naked  boughs  far  off 
The  village  roofs  to  the  horizon  fade. 

While  summer  flamed  its  joy,  neither  of 

us 
Saw  them  clustered  there  so  near  our 

home; 

But  to-day,  with  leaf  and  flower  dead, 
Into  our  thinking  they  more  often  come. 

33 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

Others  are  living  there  behind  those  walls 
And  those  worn  thresholds  with  the 

porch  above, 
Having  for  only  friends  the  wind  and 

rain 
And  the  lighted  lamp  to  give  them  love. 

In  the  fall  of  eve,  when  fires  are  lit, 
And  the  pauses  of  the  clock  they  heed, 

Dear,  as  to  us,  the  silence  is  to  them, 
The  thoughts  within  their  eyes  that  they 
may  read. 

Those  hours  of  intimacy  naught  disturbs, 
Of  tender  and  profound  tranquillity, 

Blessing  the  instant  past  for  having  been 
And  finding  dearer  yet  the  one  to  be. 

34 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

See  how  they  hold  between  their  trembling 

hands 

A  happiness  of  pain  and  pleasure  .born; 
Known  to  each  the  other's  body  old 
And  aged  eyes  by  the  same  sorrows 
worn. 


The  flowers  of  their  life,  they  love  them 
faded, 

The  final  perfume  and  the  beauty  brief, 
And  heavy  memory  of  glory  waning, 

Wasting  in  time's  garden,  leaf  by  leaf. 


Deep  in  their  warmth  of  human  feeling 

hid, 

From  the  winter  sheltered  and  recluse, 
35 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

Nothing  abases  them  or  makes  them  pine 
And  plead  for  days  they  are  content  to 
lose. 

The  quiet  folk  of  those  old  villages, 
What  neighbours  are  they  to  our  happi- 
ness! 
And  how  we  find  our  own  tears  in  their 

eyes, 

Our  strength  and  ardour  in  their  fear- 
lessness ! 

Down  there,  beneath  their  roofs,  by  win- 

dowside 

Or  seated  by  the  glowing  fireside,  thus, 
Perhaps  on  such  a  night  of  wind  and  wet, 
What  we  have  thought  of  them  they 
think  of  us. 

36 


When  the  star-lit  heaven  broods  above  our 

house 

We  sit  in  silence  during  many  hours 
Beneath  its  soft  intensity  of  light 

To  feel  more  ardent  still  these  selves 
of  ours. 


The  silver  stars  are  drifting  on  their  way; 

Beneath  their  flame  and  all  their  glis- 
tening 
The  great  night  is  deeper  and  more  deep ; 

Such  calm  there  is,  the  sea  is  listening ! 

37 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

What  matter  if  the  sea  itself  be  still, 

If  in  this  infinity  so  fair, 
Pregnant  now  with  yet  unvisioned  power, 

Our  beating  hearts  make  all  the  silence 
there? 


That  very  love  which  made  you  be  for  me 
A  splendid  garden  wherein  moving  tree  , 
Made  shadow  over  sward  and  docile  rose, 
Makes  you  the  shelter  where  I  now  repose. 

There  garnered  are  your  flowers  of  desire, 
Your  lucent  goodness  and  your  gentle  fire; 
But  all  within  a  peace  profound  are  furled 
Against  harsh  winter  winds  that  scar  the 
world. 

My   happiness    is   warmed    within    your 

arms; 
Each    little    tender    word    you    whisper 

charms 

39 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

My  ear  with  as  familiar  a  delight 

As  in  the  time  when  lilacs  blossomed  white. 

Your  clear  and  merry  humour  daily  cheers 
And  triumphs  over  the  distress  of  years; 
And  you  yourself  smile  at  the  silver  hairs 
That  your  lovely  head  so  gaily  wears. 

When  to  my  searching  kiss  your  head  you 

bow, 
I  care  not  for  the  lines  that  mark  your 

brow, 

Nor  for  a  vein  that  traces  its  bold  line 
Upon  your  hands  now  safely  held  in  mine. 

You  fear  not ;  and  you  know  most  certainly 
That  nothing  dies  that  dares  love  loyally, 
And  that  the  flame  which  nourishes  us  so 
Feeds  upon  ruin's  self  that  it  may  grow. 
40 


XII 

Those  clear  welcoming  flowers  along  the 

wall's  extent 
Will  be  no  longer  waiting  for  us  at  our 

return; 
The  silken  waters  that  prolonged  till  they 

were  spent, 

Under  a  pure  sweet  sky  no  longer  reach 
and  yearn. 

Of  our  melancholy  plains  the  flying  birds 

are  shy; 

Over  the  marshes  pale  mists  begin  to 
crawl ; 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

Autumn,  winter!     Winter,  autumn! — oh 

the  cry! 

In  the  forest  do  you  hear  the  dead  wood 
fall? 


Our  garden  is  no  longer  bridegroom  of 

the  light, 

Where  once  we  saw  the  phlox  in  glori- 
ous surge  and  flare; 
Gladioli,  in  dust,  once  violent,  upright, 
Lingeringly  have   lain  them  down  to 
perish  there. 

All  is  without  strength  or  beauty,  without 

fire, 

Fleeing  and  quailing  and  crumbling  and 
passing  sadly  by; 

42 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

Oh,  turn  on  me  your  eyes  of  light,  for  I 

desire 

There  to  seek  a  corner  of  our  early 
sky! 

It  is  there  alone  our  light  may  still  abide, 
The  light  that  filled  the  garden  once 

for  you  and  me, 
Long  ago,  when  our  lily  lifted  its  white 

pride 

And    hollyhocks    were    an    ascending 
ardency. 


43 


XIII 

When  the  diamond  grains  of  fresh  snow 

On  our  threshold  lie, 
I  hear  your  steps  that  come  and  go 

In  the  room  near  by. 

You  move  the  clear  mirror  that  beside 

The  window  stood, 
And  your  bunch  of  keys  strikes  the  drawer 

Of  the  chest  of  wood. 

I  hear  you  stirring  now  the  fire — * 

The  live  coal  flares; 
And  hear  you  place  by  silent  walls 

The  silent  chairs. 
44 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

I  hear  you  wipe  the  dust  from  objects 

As  you  pass, 
And  your  ring  resounds  against  the  side 

Of  a  vibrant  glass. 

And  happier  am  I  still,  this  eve, 
With  your  presence  dear — 

To  feel  you  close,  and  not  to  see, 
But  always  hear. 


45 


XIV 

If  fate  has  saved  us  from  the  banal  sins 
Of  cowardly  untruth  and  sad  pretence, 

It  is  because  we  would  have  no  constraint 
Whose  yoke  should  bend  our  will  with 
violence. 

Free  and  sunlit  on  your  road  you  fared, 
Strewing    with    flowers    of    will    your 

flowers  of  love ; 

Pausing  to  sustain  me  when  my  head 
Bowed  to  the  weight  of  doubt  or  fear 
above. 

46 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

Always  you   were   of  gesture   kind   and 

frank, 
Knowing   my   heart    for   you   forever 

burned; 

For  if  I  loved  another — could  it  be?— 
Always  it  was  to  your  heart  I  returned. 

So  pure  your  eyes  were  in  their  weeping 

that 

My  truth  to  you  became  my  only  lord; 
I   spoke  to  you  then  sweet   and  sacred 

words, 

Your   sorrow   and  your  pardon   were 
your  sword. 

I  fell  asleep  at  evening  on  your  breast, 
Glad  with  return  from  distance  false  and 
bleak 

47 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

To   warmth   of   spring   within   us,    glad 

within 
Your  open  arms  captivity  to  seek. 


48 


XV 

No,  my  soul  has  never  tired  of  you! 

In  the  time  of  June  you  said  to  me : 
"If  I  thought,  beloved,  if  I  thought 
That  my  love  would  ever  weary  you, 
With   my   sad   thoughts   and  my   lonely 

heart, 
No  matter  where,  I  should  depart.  .  .  ." 

And  sweetly  sought  the  kiss  I  gave  anew. 

And  you  said  again : 

"One  loses  everything,  life  would  repay; 

What  though  it  be  of  gold, 

49 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

The  chain 

That  in  one  harbour's  ring  can  hold 

Our  human  ships  to-day?" 

And  sweetly  wept  for  pain  you  could  not 
say. 

And  you  said 

Again  and  yet  again : 

"Let  us  separate,  before  we  be  untrue; 

Our  life's  too  pure  and  high 

To  draw  it  out  from  fault  to  fault,  and 

drain 

It  wearily  away.".  .  .  You  sought  to  fly 
From  me  whose  desperate  hands  strove  to 

retain. 

No,  my  soul  has  never  tired  of  you  I 
50 


XVI 

Ah,  we  are  happy  still  and  proud  to  live 
When  the  last  ray,  that's  seen  and  then 

is  lost, 
Brightens  an  instant  the  poor  flowers  of 

rime 
Engraved  upon  our  window  by  the  frost. 

Life  leaps  within  us  and  hope  sweeps  us 

on; 

And  our  garden,  though  it  be  now  old, 
Though  its  paths  be  strewn  with  fallen 

boughs, 

Seems  living,  pure  and  clear  and  lit  with 
gold. 

51 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

Something   invades   our  blood,    intrepid, 

bright, 

And  urges  us  to  incarnate  again 
Immense,  full  summer  in  the  fervid  kiss 
That  desperately  we  give  each  other 
then. 


152 


XVII 

Alas,  must  we  accept  the  weight  of  years 
And  find  us  nothing  more  than  tranquil 

folk 

Who  give  each  other  infantile  caress 
At  eve,  when  hearth  is  quick  with  flame 
and  smoke  ? 

Our  dear  belongings,  shall  they  see  us  then 
Creeping  from  the  hearth  to  wooden 
chest, 

To  reach  the  window  leaning  on  the  wall, 
Sitting  to  give  our  tottering  bodies  rest? 

53 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

If  such  a  day  must  then  affirm  our  ruin 
And  show  the  torpor  brain  or  body 

fears, 

In  spite  of  this  fate  we  shall  not  complain, 
But  keep  within  our  breasts  our  captive 
tears. 

For  we  shall  guard  these  eyes  of  ours  to 
watch 

For  morn  to  follow  night  so  pitiful, 
And  see  the  sun  of  dawn  burn  on  this  life, 

Making  of  earth  itself  a  miracle. 


XVIII 

All  little  facts,  the  things  of  no  account, 
A  letter,  date,  an  anniversary, 

A  word  that's  spoken  as  on  days  long  past, 
Exalt,  on  these  long  evenings,  you  and 
me. 

We  solemnise,  we  two,  these  simple  things 
And  count  and  recount  all  these  gems  of 
ours, 

So  that  what  is  left  of  our  high  selves 
May  face  valiantly  these  sombre  hours. 

And  we  are  jealous  more  than  it  is  meet 
Of  these  poor,  gentle,   friendly  mem- 
ories 

55 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

Who  seat  themselves  with  us  beside  the 

fire 

With  winter  flowers  laid  across  thin 
knees. 

And  the  bread  of  happiness  which  once 
We  did  partake  of,  now  they  sit  and 

eat; 
The  bread  on  which  our  love  has  fed  so 

long 

That  now  it  finds  the  very  crumbs  are 
sweet. 


XIX 

Come  to  our  threshold  now,  oh  snow, 
Strew  thy  pallid  ash, 
Oh  peaceful  and  slow  falling  snow; 
The    linden    in    the    garden    hangs    its 

branches  low 
And  to  the  sky  no  flights  of  wood-larks  go. 

Oh  snow, 

Who  warmest  and  dost  shield 

The  corn  that  is  hardly  sprung 

With  the  moss,  with  the  down 

Strewn  on  the  spreading  field  I 

Silent  snow,  oh  friendly  one 

To  houses  sleeping  in  the  morning  calm, 

57 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

Cover  our  roof  and  brush  our  window- 
frames  ; 

Oh  luminous  snow,  into  our  very  soul 
To  find  a  way  do  thou  not  scorn, 
Snow  that  warmest  still  our  last  of  dreams 
Like  the  springing  corn. 


XX 

When    our   clear    garden    lifted    up    its 

flow'rs 

The  self-accusations  made  by  each 
For  failure  of  our  love,  broke  into  speech 
In  passionate  hours; 

And  needed  pardon  offered  and  new  peace 
And  explanations  of  our  miseries 
And  tears  that  wet  our  sad  and  truthful 

eyes 

Gave  love  increase. 
But  in  these  months  of  dreary  rain 
When  all  retires  to  earth  again, 
When  even  light  is  fain 
To  find  its  war  with  darkness  vain, 

59 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

No  longer  are  our  souls  so  strong  and 

proud 
That,    rapturously,    they   should   confess 

aloud. 

In  lowered  voice  our  sins  we  say, 
Though  still  in  tenderness,  not  scorn ; 
But  'tis  at  twilight  now  and  not  at  morn. 
Sometimes  we  even  count  them,  wrong  by 

wrong, 

Like  things  that  one  counts  over 
And  puts  away; 

And  their  folly  or  their  hurt  to  cover 
We  argue  long. 


60 


XXI 

With  withered  hands  I  touch  your  brow 
And  part  your  hair  and  kiss — (as  the 

day  dies 

And  you  are  briefly  sleeping  by  the  hearth) 
Beneath  long  lashes  hid,  your  fervent 
eyes. 

Oh  the  dear  tenderness  of  sinking  day! 
I  think  of  the  long  years  whose  flight  we 

saw, 

And  suddenly  your  life  in  them  appears 
So  perfect  that  my  love  is  filled  with 
awe. 

61 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

And  as  in  that  time  when  we  were  be- 
trothed, 

Ardour  again  is  in  me  and  has  brought 
Desire  to  kneel  and  touch  your  beating 

breast 

With  fingers  that  are  chaste  as  is  my 
thought. 


62 


XXII 

Our  hearts  once  burned  in  joyous  days 
With  love  as  luminous  as  high, 

But  age  to-day  has  made  us  weak 
With  faults  we  dare  deny. 

Thou  dost  not  nourish  us,  oh  will, 
By  thine  ardour  in  the  strife, 

But  soft  benevolence  alone 
Colours  now  our  life. 

We  near  thy  brink  of  setting,  Love, 
And  try  to  hide  our  frailty's  pain 

In  banal  words  and  poor  discourse 
Of  wisdom  slow  and  vain. 

63 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

How  sad  the  future  then  would  be, 
If  when  our  days  grow  wintrier 

There  flame  not  forth  the  memory 
Of  the  proud  souls  we  were. 


XXIII 

This  wrinkled  winter  when  the  ruined  sun 

Founders  in  the  west  and  sinks  below, 

I  love  to  say  your  name,  so  grave  and 

slow, 
While  the  clock  strikes  another  day  now 

done. 


And  saying  it  so  ravishes  my  voice 
That  from  my  lips  it  sinks  into  my  heart, 
And   among  all  sweet  words  that  there 

have  part, 
Makes  me  the  most  ardently  rejoice. 

65 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

And  in  the  wind  of  dawn  or  evening's 

breath 

Changeless  I  reiterate  the  theme ; 
Oh,  think  with  what  a  passion,  strong, 

supreme, 
Shall  I  pronounce  it  at  the  hour  of  death ! 


66 


XXIV5 

Perhaps, 

On  my  last  day, 

Perhaps, 

Across  my  window  sill, 

The  sunlight  frail  and  still 

Will  fall  and  for  a  moment  stay.  .  .  . 

My    hands — my    hands    then    poor    and 

withered — 

By  its  glory  will  be  made  to  gold ; 
Slowly  its  kiss  will  glide,  profound  and 

bright, 
For  the  last  time  upon  my  mouth  and 

head; 

6? 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

And  the  flowers  of  my  eyes,  pale  yet  bold, 
Before  they  close,  shall  render  back  its 
light. 

Sun,  I  loved  your  strength  and  clarity,  in- 
deed! 

My  sweet  and  fiery  poems  at  their  height 
Have  held  you  captive  in  the  heart  of 

them; 

Like  field  of  wheat  that  surges  in  the  might 
Of  summer  wind  my  words  exalted  you. 
Oh  sun,  who  bring  to  birth  and  flower  the 

stem, 
Oh  immense  friend,  of  whom  our  pride 

has  need, 

In  that  so  grave,  imperious  hour  and  new, 
When  my  old  heart  sadly  endures  the  test, 
Be  you  still  its  witness  and  its  guest ! 
68 


XXV 

Clasped  about  my  neck  and  harbouring  my 

breast, 
Ah  your  so  dear  hands  now  and  their 

slow  caress, 
When  I  tell  you,  in  the  evening,  how  my 

strength 

Grows  leaden  day  by  day  with  weight  of 
feebleness ! 

You  wish  it  not  that  I  become  shadow  and 

ruin 

Like   all  those  who  obey  the  gloomy 
night's  behests, 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

Though  it  be  with  laurel  in  their  mournful 

hands 

And    glory    sleeping    in   their   hollow 
breasts. 

Ah  how  time's  harsh  law  is  softened  by 

your  love 
And  how  your  lovely  dream  disconsolate 

tears  would  stem; 
For  the  first  and  only  time  you  nurse  with 

lies 

My  heart  that  finds  excuse  and  gives 
you  thanks  for  them. 

Which,  however,  knows  all  ardour  is  in 

vain 

Against  what  is  and  all  that  must  be  in 
the  strife, 

7° 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

And  that  perhaps  there  is  profounder  hap- 
piness 

To  end  thus  in  your  eyes  my  lovely 
human  life. 


XXVI 

When  you  shall  close  these  eyes  of  mine 

to  light, 
Oh  kiss  them  long — for  all  that  love 

afire 
May  hope  to  give  they  shall  have  given 

you 
In  that  last  look  of  ultimate  desire. 

Beneath  the  moveless  glow  of  candle  light, 
Oh  lean  to  them  your  face  so  fain  and 

brave 
That   on  them   be   impressed  this  sight 

alone 

That  they  shall   keep   forever  in  the 
grave. 

72 


THE  EVENING  HOURS 

And  may  I  feel,  before  the  tomb  is  mine, 
Upon  the  pure,  white  bed  our  hands 
that  seek 

Each  other  once  again,  and  near  my  head 
Feel  for  the  last  time  repose  your  cheek ; 

And  know  that  I  shall  go  away  with  heart 

Burning  still  for  you  so  passionately 
That  even  through  the  mute  and  stony 

earth 

The    dead    themselves    shall    feel    its 
ardency ! 


73 


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